"It seems like a bad sign to me," Maerad said. "As if it were pursuing us."
"That's how I read it," Cadvan answered. "They will have guessed we are heading for Ileadh. I think, Owan, we should not put in at Genthaven."
"I was not planning to, at any rate," said Owan. "For that reason. There is a hamlet not far from Gent, up the Argent River, called Ossin. We are expected there."
Cadvan nodded, pleased with the arrangement, and turned to Maerad.
"Stormdogs are Elemental spirits. I suppose that's why you had that idea of singing to it, Maerad." He smiled at her tiredly. "Only an Elidhu would be crazy enough to think of something like that. The stormdog could have been sent only by Arkan, the Winterking. They are his creatures; he used them in the Elemental Wars, and also during the Great Silence. I have long suspected there is league between the Nameless One and the Winterking, and that Arkan wakes from his long sleep, but this is close indeed."
"It means that they know where we are," said Maerad, shivering. "And they're not far behind."
They reached Ossin at nightfall, after Cadvan agreed to Owan's entreaty for a charmed wind. They had sailed up the long bay of the Nathe of Gent, and Maerad gazed at the green-purple hills sloping gently up on either side in the distance. In a hollow at the far end of the Nathe, she caught a glimpse of Gent itself: white walls overtopped by a cluster of onion-domed towers gleaming silver and gold and copper in the lowering sun. She inwardly sighed that she would not be visiting the School; even from a distance it looked beautiful.
Instead, they sailed a league or so west and turned into the wide mouth of the Argent River. A deep channel ran through its middle, but otherwise it sprawled its shallow waters, which flashed dazzlingly silver, over gravelly shoals. A blustery, cold wind sprang up, blowing inland, and under sail they pushed upstream past steep, deeply forested banks, the treetops gilded with the last rays of the sun, their shadows falling on the surface of the water. The gentle scents of leaf and grass and flower floated over them, and they could hear the hubbub of birds settling to their roosts, and the occasional quarrels of ducks. When the sun had set and a waning moon swung high in the sky, they pulled in to a stone jetty that jutted out into the river, enclosing a tiny stone harbor built around a kind of natural lagoon. It was big enough to hold half a dozen boats at most.
All three left the White Owl, Maerad giving the railing a farewell pat as she stepped over the gangplank. She would never be, she knew, any sort of seawoman, but she felt a warm obligation to the boat nevertheless; it had held together despite the worst that sea and wind and monster could do and had carried them safely back to shore.
They walked in silence along a small leaf-strewn track, which led up the banks and then broke out of the trees into open fields. Maerad saw a cluster of lights glowing through the darkness. Shortly afterward they arrived at a hamlet of about a dozen buildings; Owan paused in the street, looking up and down, and led them at last to the biggest. It was a double-story house made of wood and daub and painted all over with intricate murals of Bards and townsfolk at work.
"This is the First Bard's country house," said Owan, smiling, as they reached the front door and banged the silver knocker. "I've only been here a couple of times, but I warn you, he is famous for his hospitality."
The door opened, revealing a big, dark-haired man. He flung out his arms in welcome and ushered them inside. "Cadvan! Owan! Come in, my friends. It is overlong since last we met. And you are Maerad of Pellinor? My name is Gahal, Gahal of Gent. Come in, come in. Dump your packs here. Look, let me take that cloak. First, some food and drink, yes? Nothing makes you as hungry as sailing, I believe. No, don't worry about that; I'll show you your rooms soon. Now, here we are."
He hadn't stopped talking all the way up the hallway, Maerad thought in wonder.
She gasped as she entered the sitting room; she had become used to fine rooms, but this was especially beautiful. The long casements were shaded with floor-length curtains, made of embroidered silk from Thorold, which glowed with a rich sheen of gold, and the low couches were covered in the same fabric. But it was the walls and ceiling that made her stop in wonder. The walls were paneled with pale cedar, each panel delicately carved and framing a painting of a different bird. The ceiling itself was painted with a riot of birds in flight, all flying in a spiral toward the center of the room.
Maerad was momentarily struck speechless and automatically accepted the glass of wine thrust into her hand. She felt far too filthy to sit down in such a room, but Gahal almost pushed her onto a couch and then, still chatting amiably, handed around sweetmeats and drinks. Maerad contented herself with examining the room, craning her neck to see the painting on the ceiling. The birds were of dozens of different kinds, all meticulously rendered in every detail on an azure sky with rose clouds scudding across it. It darkened to evening colors toward the casement, and there between the clouds twinkled a single star. Maerad was sure it was Ilion.
"You like my birds?" said Gahal, startling her out of her reverie.
"Oh, yes," said Maerad. "I don't think I've ever seen such a beautiful room."
Gahal looked pleased. "It took me six years," he said. "Gent keeps me so busy, you see. But every chance I got, I came down here until all the panels were completed. And now I can sit among the creatures I love, even when they fly south."
Maerad glanced at the Bard with new respect. His loquaciousness, which was not what she had expected from the First Bard of Gent, had at first made her wonder privately if he were not a little foolish, but the loveliness of the paintings, and a certain sharpness in Gahal's regard, dispelled her suspicion. He was clearly not a man to underestimate. "You obviously know a lot about birds," she said.
"Birds are my passion," said Gahal. "They are the most beautiful creatures on earth; the sky is their element, and they live in it with such grace. All my life I have watched them, and loved them, and learned from them."
"If you need to know anything about birdlore," said Cadvan, "Gahal is the first authority." He lifted his glass. "And this room is one of the masterpieces of Edil-Amarandh. We are lucky to be able to see it."
"But it's comfortable as well," said Maerad. "In Norloch there were lots of beautiful rooms, but somehow they felt too grand, as though you couldn't just sit down and enjoy them."
"I thank you for that," said Gahal. "Well, I am happy that you are here."
"So are we," said Owan. "We almost didn't get here. We were attacked by a stormdog on our voyage."
Gahal looked at him in astonishment. "A stormdog? They haven't been seen around here since the Great Silence." He shook his head. "It is not even winter. How did you survive it?"
"Maerad sang it a lullaby," said Cadvan dryly. "And it went away."
Gahal was sipping his wine, and at this he spluttered. "You are joking, of course," he said when he had recovered himself. "I mean, really."
"No, I'm not joking. Maerad has—ah—some original solutions to such things. I must tell you of how she turned a Hull into a rabbit. But that is, in fact, what happened, and it is why we are here, and not dashed to the bottom of the Ileadh Straits."
Gahal grunted and gave Maerad a very sharp glance indeed. "You are pursued, then, and by the Winterking himself, it seems."
"I believe so," said Cadvan. "I also think we daren't go farther north by sea, as we had planned."
"Annar is dangerous for you, as well," said Gahal. "There is a price on both your heads, on Norloch's orders, and many eyes will be seeking you. I wonder which is the worst risk."
No one responded, and he sighed and poured them all another glass of wine. "Well, we will talk more seriously over dinner, when you have refreshed yourselves. Meanwhile, I have heard from Thorold, of course, and I assume you know of the situation here?"
"We know of the ultimatum from Norloch, and what your response has been, if that is what you mean," said Cadvan.
"It is the worst news for a long time. I have been disturbed these last fifty years, as y
ou know, Cadvan. Something is deeply wrong. But it is no satisfaction to be proved right."
"No, none at all."
"Nerili tells me you are going north, on a quest I don't fully apprehend. And I am given to understand that Maerad of Pellinor is the Fated One?"
"So we believe."
Gahal looked her over with a cool curiosity that belied his former manner altogether. Maerad bore his examination with patience, wishing she were cleaner.
"I see." Gahal put his glass on the table, linked his hands behind his neck, and leaned back into the couch, contemplating his ceiling. "That is news of greater significance than the happenings at Norloch. The Light stirs at need, it is said." He leaned forward suddenly and to Maerad's surprise took her hand in his. "You are very young. Overyoung, I would say. Much rests on your shoulders, young Bard. I had heard of your extraordinary powers before tonight, but I do not doubt you will need any help you can get."
"There is much I do not understand," said Maerad. "But I am learning."
"Gent you can count on. But Annar is split." Gahal let go of her hand and glanced at Cadvan. "There are those who remain loyal to Enkir—allies of the Dark or those who believe that as First Bard he must be acting against the Dark—and there are those who are deeply troubled or in deep disagreement, yet fear to be called rebels by Norloch. Even in Gent, I cannot be sure there are no spies. And the Dark is on your very heels. It will not be easy to pass through Annar."
"Still, I think it would be less perilous than stormdogs," said Owan. "There was only one, and it nearly sank us."
"As always, we have to choose between bad and worse," said Cadvan. "There are no safe paths."
"No," said Gahal. "Well, I have warned you of the perils of Annar, so I must consider my duty done. You must make your own choices."
"Everything tells me that time runs short for us," said Cadvan. "You have heard of the Rite of Renewal in Busk?"
Gahal sighed heavily. "Yes," he said. "It will not surprise you to hear that in Gent it almost failed. Almost. But I do not doubt that across Annar there will be Schools where the Rite has failed completely. Something draws out the Dark within us all. This is not just a war of arms and martial strategies, Cadvan."
"No," said Cadvan. "That has been clear for a while."
Maerad shuddered. "I had an evil foredream in Norloch," she said. "And also in Innail. And there was a voice that said, I am again, but none shall find my dwelling, for I live in every human heart."
Gahal looked at her in surprise. "You are a seer as well?"
Maerad didn't answer, and Cadvan stirred and said, "Yes, she is. Well, it was always a gift of the House of Karn. There is much to tell you, Gahal, and not just about Maerad. But I am glad to know that we can count on Gent. Not that I would have expected anything else."
There was a short silence, and then Gahal drained his glass and rose. "Alas, my curiosity makes me discourteous. You will want to refresh yourselves," he said. "Your rooms are waiting for you; I'll show you to them. And then we will eat a dinner worthy of your exploits."
Maerad woke the next morning with a feeling of complete luxury. Her skin felt soft and clean, instead of itchy and rough with brine, and all the aches of tiredness had vanished. After the discomforts of a hammock, a real bed felt wonderful. She stretched lazily, listening to the sounds coming through the casement: the cluck of chickens scratching in the road, a couple of men chatting in the rich dialect of Ileadh, the low of cattle drifting in from the distance, the cark cark of crows. A warm late-morning light shafted through the casement and tempted her out of bed. She wriggled her toes in the soft carpet, and looked out of the window.
From Gahal's house she could see over the roofs of the hamlet all the way down to the river, which glimmered silver as it twisted between the hills. Close to the hamlet was a patchwork of fields with a white road winding through them that dived into the birch forests that stretched up to hills purpling in the distance.
Maerad had slept long and deeply, after a dinner as convivial as Gahal had forecast. At dinner, they had been joined by Gahal's household, which counted about twenty people. There was his direct family: his wife, Rena, his two adult sons, Nik and Beljan, and his daughter, Lyla, who was about Maerad's age. But there were also other Bards and laypeople who were not related to Gahal at all, but bore some other profound relationship of work or inclination. Lyla, for instance, seemed to regard the other adults as intimately as if they were second fathers or mothers. Maerad, whose family had been fragmented by disaster and who had, up until now, mainly stayed at Schools, did not remember the broader patterns of responsibilities and kinship that operated in Barding households, and it struck her for the first time.
Lyla had sat next to Maerad, and the two liked each other on sight. It was the first time that Maerad had met anyone her own age who wasn't awed by her reputation or her association with Cadvan.
The conversation remained general, and Maerad had eaten her way through several courses of beautifully prepared food: a dish of fat yellow asparagus cooked to absolute tenderness, a salad of herbs and nasturtiums, fresh trout baked with almonds and honey, wood mushrooms seethed in milk and butter. Then Gahal had insisted she try his limonel, an apple spirit he made himself, which was more delicious (and stronger) than laradhel. It was no wonder she had slept so well.
She lazily watched a horseman trot up the road toward the house, dismount, and knock on the door.
Rena had lent her some of Lyla's clothes, as her own were being laundered, and she had just decided she had better dress and see what was happening with the day when there was a knock on the chamber door.
"Yes?" said Maerad.
Lyla popped her head around the door. "Morning, Maerad! Papa wanted to know if you'd like breakfast."
Maerad indicated her nightgown. "I've been a bit slow this morning," she said. "I'm not even dressed."
"Oh, he said to tell you there's no hurry." Lyla came shyly into the room. Like Gahal, she was dark-haired and dark-eyed, and her hair was tied in a long plait down her back. "He just wanted to know whether to put it all away yet. Cadvan and Owan aren't up, either."
"Well, I'm glad to know it's not just me being so lazy," said Maerad, laughing.
"Besides, Anhil's arrived, and he wants to meet you."
"Who's Anhil?" asked Maerad, unselfconsciously pulling off her nightgown and dragging on some underclothes.
"He's a Bard at Gent. I like him; he's always lovely. And he's very good-looking." Lyla sat down on the bed. "Is this your lyre? It's not very grand, is it? Papa's has gold inlay and golden strings. But I suppose you can only get old ones when you're young like us. Anhil is Dernhil's brother, you know, the Bard who was killed at Innail. I didn't know him so well—I only met him once, when I was three—but it was just awful. I was so sad for Anhil."
Maerad was grateful that her dress was over her head, so Lyla couldn't see her expression. Dernhil's brother! She had known that Dernhil was from Gent, and it was, in fact, one of the reasons that she had wanted to go there, but the thought of meeting his brother keenly brought back her sorrow at his death. But the moment passed, and she shrugged the dress over her shoulders.
Lyla looked at her critically, her head on one side. "I like that dress," she said. "But I think it looks nicer on me than on you."
"I should wash first," Maerad answered. "I'll be downstairs after that."
"I shall see you then," said Lyla. "I'll tell Papa."
By the time she appeared downstairs, washed and brushed, Maerad had composed herself enough to greet Anhil. He was sitting in the dining room talking to Gahal, leaning back in his chair, one foot on the other knee. When Maerad entered, he stood up and Gahal introduced them. She felt a start of painful recognition: Anhil was both like and unlike Dernhil; his hair was light brown, and he was not quite so tall. But his eyes held the same mobile expressiveness as Dernhil's, and she found it hard to look at him straight.
"I am glad to meet you," Anhil said courteously, taking
her hand. "My brother wrote to me about you, shortly before he died. You impressed him very much."
A lump gathered in Maerad's throat and she nodded, unable for a moment to answer.
"His death was a great grief," she said. "I am very sorry. It must have been hard for you."
"Yes," answered Anhil. "He is a great loss to all of us, but most of all to those who loved him."
Maerad had no idea how to respond, and simply nodded again, biting her lip, and at that moment, to her relief, Cadvan entered the room. Anhil turned to greet him, and Cadvan embraced him wordlessly. Maerad sat at the table, her heart thumping, feeling graceless and awkward.
Lyla leaned over to her and whispered, "See, I told you he was good-looking." Maerad blushed scarlet. "I didn't know you knew Dernhil."
"Yes," Maerad said. "For too short a time."
"It was sad, what happened to him," said Lyla. "His ashes are at Gent, you know." Maerad mumbled something inaudible in reply, and Lyla at last worked out that Maerad was uncomfortable talking about Dernhil and changed the subject. "Anyway, have some of this honey; it's very nice. Mama keeps the hives and she gives the bees plenty of sweet clovers to work with."
Gratefully Maerad buried herself in the business of eating, and gradually her emotions settled enough for her to start listening to the conversation between Cadvan, Anhil, and Gahal. Anhil was one of the First Circle of Gent, and his visit was not prompted solely by Cadvan and Maerad's presence. Another emissary had arrived from Norloch, demanding men at arms from Ileadh for Norloch's campaign against the Dark.
"Naturally," Anhil said to Gahal, "we have told him that we can make no decisions in your absence from the School, and that he will have to await your return from Damaroch."
"Damaroch?" said Cadvan.
The Riddle Page 15
